Learning Experiences
by ChocolateIsMyDrug
Summary: From 'Emma'. The worst quarrels Mr. and Mrs. Knightley have are invariably about their children.
1. George

**A/N:** An idea I've been toying with lately – I want to explore how Emma and Mr. Knightley would fight when they're on a more equal footing when it concerns who is in the right.

Chapters will be short, and may seem unrelated at first, but bear with me, because they contain essential history. Hint: the date at the top of each chapter lets you know when the events are taking place; hopefully this will prevent confusion. The events of the novel _Emma_ are believed to have been set in 1814 or 1815. Please let me know what you think!

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**Learning Experiences**

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_1783_

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He had told his father that he didn't need to know how to ride a horse, because he was going to be a pirate. 'Pirates only need to know how to steer a ship and swordfight,' he said, privately deciding to omit his rather unpirate-like feeling that horses were far too tall and fast to ride on anyway.

His father had laughed, but had not given in. 'Certainly, George, but you will be a gentleman pirate, and all gentlemen, even the plundering kind, should learn how to ride. Come on, now.'

And in no time at all he was sitting nervously atop Pilot, his father's newly bought huge black horse, his clammy hands clasped tightly around the reins.

His father stood next to him. 'Just follow your instincts,' he said, and then he slapped the horse's flank, setting it in motion. Panicked, George turned his head back, mouth dry, to ask for more detailed instructions. If nobody taught him, how was he ever going to learn?

Perhaps it had happened because he had gone into the lesson with the mindset that it would be terrible. Perhaps it had happened because he _had_ no instincts to speak of. Perhaps it was just bad luck – but whatever the reason, the sudden gunshots of the hunting party in their neighbour's estate frightened the horse, which reared, causing him to fall off sideways, after desperately trying to hold on.

He had barely gotten his breath back from the fall when one of the horse's hooves landed on his leg. There was a sickening _crack_ and he gave an involuntary cry of pain. Pirate hopeful, gentleman-in-training, whatever he was supposed to be, as the tears he could not suppress rolled down his face, he just felt like a five-year-old boy.

A silly, weak five-year-old boy who couldn't even stay on his horse for two minutes. A stupid five-year-old boy whose leg hurt so much that he couldn't help crying like a girl.

After Dr. Perry had come and gone, even though his father was apologetic, and his mother kind, his own fears did not dissipate.

'I am sorry your first lesson had to end like that,' his father had said ruefully, 'but in a couple of months, when your leg is mended, we'll get you back on a horse. You will learn, son.'

And although that last was said in a tone of encouragement, to George it sounded more like an iron-willed threat.

He _did_ want to be a proper gentleman when he grew up, like his father, but if he were just expected to follow his instincts, how was he _ever_ going to learn?


	2. Emma

**A/N:** C, your review is pretty much spot-on for where I'm taking this story. The plan is to cover one quarrel and its resolution in detail. Hopefully you'll be able to appreciate both sides.

Let me know what you think of this one!

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_1799_

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She had thought it would be fun, and for a while it was. As she reached for the lowest branch and scrabbled around the bark for a foothold, she could feel the excitement in her veins. She was so sick of sitting demurely by herself, playing with her dolls.

She had seen John climb this tree before, a feat of boldness which had stirred Isabella's fear, and then her admiration when he returned safe and triumphant. She would show them what she, Emma, could do, and then they would be so impressed that they would include her in their games for once.

That had been the plan, at least.

Now she was clinging to a branch at least fifty feet off the ground and look as she might she couldn't seem to find a near enough foothold to lower herself to the ground. Every time she considered moving, the branch she was on appeared to sway alarmingly.

She tried to cry out for help, but could only produce a choked whisper.

It seemed like hours – and maybe it had been, for the light had been gradually fading for some time now – before her anxious father, Miss Taylor, Isabella and the Knightleys finally found her.

The confused din of their voices – Miss Taylor's gentle words of concern, her father and Isabella's extremely vocal horrors – made her head hurt, and she closed her eyes, clinging tighter than ever to the branch.

'Emma – Emma, can you hear me?'

His voice came to her clearly over theirs, and she opened her eyes to meet his gaze which suddenly did not seem so far as her height of fifty feet would have led her to expect. The others fell silent.

'Emma, do you see the trunk behind you?' Trying to move as little as possible, she turned her head. Looking back down at him, she nodded. 'Listen to me carefully, Emma – I want you to slowly slide back along your branch until you get to the trunk; now can you do that?'

She had begun to move backwards while still maintaining her grip on the branch and was finding that _yes_ she _could_ do this, when her father's horrified voice rang out clearly. 'My dear George, what can you be thinking, telling her to move? She cannot come down by herself – she will fall to her death! Oh, what is to be done?' Up on the branch, Emma froze.

There was a pause, and then Mr. Knightley said, sounding resigned, 'I will go up and get her.'

And while he was climbing up Emma felt half-relieved, half-disappointed, for she wished her father had allowed her to come down by herself. If she had to be rescued all the time, how was she ever going to learn?

When she was safely in Mr. Knightley's arms, and he safely on the ground, Emma couldn't help the small sob that escaped her. For she had seen that John's concerned expression had changed to a wicked grin, and she knew that far from impressing him and her sister, she was never going to hear the end of this.

And when she saw the mingled relief and anxiety on her father's face, she knew she would be lucky to even make it out of doors in the next decade. How was she _ever _going to learn?


	3. Fred

**A/N:** And now we get to the point… hope you like it – please review!

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_1826_

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Fred Knightley had for the past ten minutes been determinedly trying _not_ to listen to his older brother's comments. He didn't want or need to hear about how riding a horse was not so bad, really – actually quite easy once you figured out how to stop it from throwing you off; quite peaceful as long as you didn't grip its flank with your knees too hard – or not hard enough for that matter; how it wouldn't rear on its hind legs if you held the reins at precisely the right pressure (but would if you varied this even slightly).

It was easy for Arthur to say all this – he had pestered his father for lessons since he was three, and was finally allowed to begin at five, and was a natural at it. Fred did not feel quite so confident, and although his father had been kind enough and understanding enough not to pressure him into learning earlier than he was ready to, there was a limit to his patience, and apparently since every gentleman had to learn how to ride, at seven years of age he himself could not defer it any longer.

The bout of the measles which he, Arthur and the baby had all come down with in the past few weeks had – somewhat sadly – abated in him and his brother, so he no longer had any excuse.

His reluctance and trepidation must have shown on his face, because his brother rolled his eyes in disgust. 'Don't be such a _girl_, Fred – even _Anna Weston_ knows how to ride.'

He felt a stab of fierce anger and a sudden desire to hit his brother, but he knew from experience that he would not win the fight. Instead he looked to his mother for support – of his parents, she was usually the disciplinarian – but she was too busy trying to stop the baby from crying.

Fred wished the baby would stop screaming. She had fallen ill not much later than they had, but she seemed to be suffering more. She would cry for hours before falling into an exhausted sleep which never lasted long. None of them had slept particularly well because of this. In fact his father, who had returned for his third brief weekly visit in between his scheduled month at Kingston with William Larkins aiding in the distribution of the products of Donwell's exceptionally good harvest, was the only one of them who was at all well-rested.

Just then his father returned with the new riding clothes he had gone upstairs to fetch for Fred. 'Ready for your first lesson?' he smiled.

Fred smiled weakly, and unwilling to disappoint his father, he opened his mouth to try and say something to show his – nonexistent – enthusiasm, but before he could Arthur scoffed. 'He's not ready at all; he's too _scared_ to ride, aren't you, Fred?'

Their father frowned slightly and looked as if he might say something, but then their mother said impatiently, 'Oh, don't be such a coward, Fred – sometimes you need to challenge yourself.'

She had already turned back to the baby and was trying to soothe it in vain, so she was not in time to observe the sudden tears which Fred was blinking back furiously – Arthur would _never_ let him live it down if he cried in front of him – but in the quick involuntary glance he took at his father's face, he could see that his other parent was not so oblivious.

Fred avoided looking at any of them; he did not think he could look at his mother for a while yet without hearing her unknowingly cutting words in his mind, and yet he could not stand the thought that a look at his father might be read as an appeal for help. He didn't want to cause any more fuss than he already had. He'd show Arthur that he could be just as natural a rider as _he_ could.

'Let's go ride,' he said brusquely, and then he left to head for the stables.


	4. Conflict

**A/N: **We're continuing more or less from where we left off in 1826 – please review with any thoughts!

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His lesson over, and having changed out of his riding clothes, Fred – who was running full-pelt through the corridors and stairwells with the intention of getting to the clearing with the deep pond and the supposedly climbable trees where he was sure he'd find his brother – was torn between feeling elated and furious.

Elated that riding had not only been so easy, but also so much fun, and _furious_ that Arthur had misled him so and that he, Fred, had been bird-witted enough to believe him.

It was as he was pausing for a moment by the door of the sitting room to catch his breath that he heard his parents' voices.

'How _could _you have said such a thing to him, Emma? I might have expected such words from Arthur, but he has the excuse of being a nine-year-old boy!' Outside, Fred froze, his blood turning to ice at the disappointment in his father's voice, and the knowledge that _he_ was the reason his parents, who were usually so happy together, were arguing.

His mother's voice sounded hurt and defiant all at once. 'What did I say but the truth? I dare say I should not have phrased it as I did, but – oh, don't look at me like that, Mr. Knightley!' The sounds of the baby crying were heard, and for a moment or two his mother was occupied in attempting to soothe and hush her.

'You said nothing to him but the _truth_?' Fred had never heard such a note of blazing anger in his father's voice before. 'Emma, you just told our boy – a _seven-year-old_ – that he was a coward for being apprehensive of riding a creature twice his height and able to throw him off; that's not cowardice – call it common sense!'

His mother laughed scornfully, but there was perhaps a note of uncertainty in it. 'Mr. Knightley, you're being ridiculous – Bessie is the most placid creature alive, and if Arthur was not afraid, then why should Fred be?'

Fred had heard enough. As he turned away, both elation and fury now drained out of him, he could only feel rather sick at heart.


	5. Conflict Continued

**A/N:** Bear with me – I know it's hard to see that it's not all 'perfect happiness' after the end of the novel, but then, when is it ever?

I hope to convince you that even if life isn't perfect for the Knightleys, and sometimes can downright suck, it's pretty darn awesome anyway. Please review with any thoughts

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Unaware of the noiseless arrival and subsequent departure of their small eavesdropper, Mr. and Mrs. Knightley's quarrel did not abate.

'Fred is not Arthur, Emma,' he said heatedly. 'Our boys are each their own person, and it's not fair of you to expect one to be just like the other. If you think it's right to call Fred a coward, then I might be justified in saying that Arthur is reckless.'

Emma was quick to come to the defense of her first-born. 'He is _not_,' she cried warmly. 'He is just a boy, high-spirited and full of energy – and if that happens to sometimes get him into scrapes, well, I like him the better for it.'

He shook his head in disgust. 'A fine way of thinking – Fred is a coward for being sensible, and Arthur is to be congratulated for being thoughtless; is this what you will teach them?'

Emma looked as though she had been slapped. When she next spoke, her voice was very quiet, though her eyes flashed. 'Mr. Knightley, are you saying I am a bad mother?'

She was twisting his words. He had only meant to make a point to make her see the error in her tactless comment; but he had to admit that it _had_ sounded like an accusation, and one which would be unjust if he had made it. Emma was much the same sort of mother as she was a wife and a person: affectionate, loyal, loving, and yes, occasionally thoughtless. Yet he refused to apologise for his comment, for the sentiment behind it stood – he could not condone her behaviour to Fred.

At his resolute silence, the anger in her eyes intensified. 'I might well ask why then you allow your precious children to remain exposed to such a poor example of maternal guidance; I see that in your eyes I am clearly _unfit_ for the task of nursing them when they are ill, feeding them, bathing them, soothing them, sitting with them until they fall asleep, and spending every waking moment worrying about them as I have been doing _alone _for the past three weeks.' She paused for breath, her eyes filled with furious tears. Then she gasped in mock-realisation. 'Oh, I see – you only noticed my lapses _now,_ upon finding a moment to tear yourself away from Kingston!'

Without another word, crying baby in her arms, she stormed out of the room, leaving her stunned husband with the uncomfortable idea that perhaps his wife was not the only one capable of being thoughtless.


	6. Respite

**A/N:** Back to Fred's POV in this chapter. Hopefully it's a relief from the relentless angst ;-). Let me know what you think!

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Fred had not had long to brood before Arthur stuck his head inside the ship's control cabin (in reality a sheet draped over carefully arranged chairs), his irrepressible grin on his face. 'So, how was it?' he asked.

At this Fred suddenly remembered why he had been so angry with his brother, and his indignation welled up once more. 'You _lied_ to me,' he said accusingly. 'You said it would be _scary_.'

Arthur, who had now fully entered the cabin, thought seriously for a moment. 'I did, didn't I?' Then he grinned. 'Knew you'd find out eventually, but it was worth it just to see your face.'

Fred spluttered in outrage. 'You said I'd be lucky not to be thrown – when poor old Bess has probably never thrown anyone in her life!'

Arthur shrugged, looking highly amused, and Fred couldn't help it – with the combination of the gleam in Arthur's eye and the sudden image of docile old Bessie wildly bucking off her riders, he couldn't prevent the snort of laughter that escaped him.

He threw a punch at his brother for form's sake, but it was half-hearted at best, and since both of them were laughing, it hardly had the air of settling a debt of honour which it had held in Fred's imagination.

Sometimes he hated Arthur, he really did, but over the years he had found that he was never able to hate his brother when he was smiling.

Once their laughter had faded, Arthur cleared his throat. 'So, where are we voyaging to today, Captain?'

Fred was much moved, knowing that no matter how well Arthur thought he hid it, he _was_ feeling guilty for goading his brother earlier. He was wise enough to hide the fact that he had realised this, however, and decided to just enjoy his big brother's company when it was offered so freely and ungrudgingly. 'We're going to Australia,' he said decidedly.

Arthur scoffed. 'What on earth for? There's nothing there but deserts and prisoners!' There, that was more like the Arthur Fred was used to.

He scowled menacingly. 'It's not your place to question orders, Midshipman – if you're not careful, you'll find yourself languishing in the desert among the prisoners on the charge of mutiny.'

Arthur was half-laughing, half-outraged. '_Midshipman_? Dash it, by rights _I _should be Captain – at least make me Lieutenant!'

Fred tried and failed to stem his laughter. 'You think you can be promoted for insubordination? I want to see less talk and more work, Midshipman!'


	7. Resolution

**A/N:** Sorry that updating has been so slow and infrequent for all of my stories – but uni has been _unbelievably_ busy this year. When I don't have an assignment due or an exam coming up, I have a truckload of essential pre-reading to do. Plus my music commitments have been pretty hectic.

Anyway, hope you find this final installment satisfying – please review with any thoughts!

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In the early hours of the next morning, Emma was awoken by the sound of the baby crying, and with a small sigh she got out of bed, securing her dressing gown about her and lighting a candle before padding softly to the nursery.

From the corridor she could see a light flickering in the room, and knowing Sarah the nursery maid to have been lying ill with a worse bout of measles than had plagued either Arthur or Fred, she quickened her steps to see who was in the room. At the threshold, observing Mr. Knightley holding their daughter in his arms, speaking softly to her and pacing slowly to try and calm her, Emma hesitated for a moment before entering.

He looked up at the sound of her footsteps, and indicated with an inclination of his head that they both sit in the small loveseat in the corner of the nursery. Once settled (somewhat uncomfortably, for it was cramped), he spoke quietly. 'What does Perry say about her?'

Emma looked down into the face of her now softly whimpering ten-month-old, whose tender skin was covered in the miserable red rash typical of measles, and sighed. 'He says there is nothing to worry about at the moment, and that even if she continues as she is for some time, it is only to be expected; apparently the illness hits babies worse than it does older children.'

He only nodded, but she could see the relief in his eyes. For a moment they were both silent, but then he swallowed hard, and spoke after a little hesitation. 'I should have been here,' he said softly.

Emma cleared her throat in a futile effort to try and dislodge the lump which had welled up in it, and shook her head. 'The harvest is important for the whole of Donwell; I understand that.'

The arm that was not holding their daughter came around her, and with a sigh she rested her head on his shoulder. 'It is,' he said, 'but perhaps it should not have been more important than our family.'

There was no reply to be made to this, so for some time they were silent. Finally, sounding tired, he asked, 'Why did you say that to Fred, Emma?'

She was unsurprised at the question; she herself had lain awake for hours trying to puzzle it out, trying to understand _why_ Fred's timidity had caused disappointment, but more than that, _envy,_ to wash over her like something hot and corrosive. He was a boy, she had thought, a boy who had the luxury, the _freedom_ to do anything he wanted if only he would take it, a boy whose parents would not wrap him up in cotton wool, a boy who had the opportunity to _live_. She shook her aching head wearily. 'I don't know – I didn't mean it, and yet I _did_. I should have said it some other way, but I just… I didn't think.'

'He had tears in his eyes, Emma,' Mr. Knightley said quietly, and there was no overt reproach in his voice, but all the same at the picture his words conjured the lump in Emma's throat grew so painful she thought she would choke on it.

'I will talk to him tomorrow,' she said finally. Then she sighed, trying to put some of her jumbled thoughts into words. 'It's just that sometimes, I worry about Fred; he's always been such a quiet, cautious child – nothing like Arthur. While Arthur's climbing trees and riding horses and falling into lakes and breaking windows, Fred's sitting quietly with his nose in some book of maps or fiddling with a compass. I just want him to be able to try new things, and to not _think_ so much and scare himself out of experiencing things for himself – is that so unreasonable?'

'Arthur will be delighted, even if William Larkins won't, that you hold his breaking that window in such fond remembrance,' remarked Mr. Knightley somewhat dryly. Then he continued more seriously, 'While I see your point, Emma, I don't think we can – or should – change him. We can encourage him, maybe we can occasionally nudge him, but he needs to experience things in his own good time.'

She nodded, trying to accept this. 'That sounds perfectly sensible – and yet…' She paused, and then decided to voice her thought, the thought at the root of the matter. 'And yet I can't help thinking that if I had been in his position, if I had had the opportunities he has, I would have embraced them.'

Mr. Knightley's eyes were warm with sympathy. 'I understand that. Much as I esteemed your father, I have always felt that perhaps he sheltered you a little too much.' Then he was silent for a moment as if gathering his thoughts. 'And yet I don't think you quite understand Fred – perhaps you cannot fully understand the expectations that come with the freedom he has; with so much opportunity, the fear lies in the doubt in one's own ability rather than in missing out.' And then, haltingly, he told her about another small boy who had feared his first riding lesson, and whose fears had proved so unfortunately well-founded.

Emma listened intently; for all she had known Mr. Knightley all her life, he had been grown-up and invincible ever since she could remember, and all she knew about his childhood had been from the occasional comment dropped by himself or John. He had never really talked about it in any detail until now.

She winced in sympathy at his brief mention of the horse's hoof coming down on his leg. 'But I never noticed,' she said, surprised. 'You do not walk with a limp – at least, not that I could ever discern.'

He smiled grimly. 'I was lucky – the fracture was simple, and had not punctured the skin, so there was no infection and the bones were well aligned as they healed, and thankfully they grew normally afterwards.'

Emma could not help feeling indignant on his behalf. 'And your father – he let this happen?'

'Well, he could hardly have prevented it by any action of his after that gunshot had sounded,' said Mr. Knightley reasonably. 'But later I could not help thinking that it would not have happened if I had had a little more guidance – and so I was determined to give Fred as much.'

For a moment, Emma absently stroked her daughter's hair, but then she said abruptly, 'Then I am sorry for what I said to Fred.'

'I am glad – but perhaps I overreacted when I condemned you for what you said. I felt almost like I was defending my five-year-old self, and yet I recognize now that the circumstances are different – Fred is older than I was, and he was, after all, in my capable hands,' he smiled.

Emma could not choke back a gurgle of laughter. 'You are an abominably conceited man, do you know that, Mr. Knightley?'

The arm that was around her clasped her fondly, and, still smiling, he kissed her. 'Well, lucky for me that I'm married to an abominably conceited woman,' he said. Such a slanderous indictment of her character could not pass without an attempt at silencing him, and Emma threw herself enthusiastically into the task.

Some moments passed in delicious silence before Emma realised that it truly _was_ silent. She looked down at her daughter, lying in Mr. Knightley's lap, her mouth open, her little chest rising and falling, sleeping peacefully for the first time in over a fortnight.

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**The End**


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